Empty Wallet, Full Hands

The bonus folds in my palm,

creases like old scars that won’t fade.

A coffee ring stains the paper,

a promise worn thin,

empty as the diner seat beneath me.

Hands that hold coins,

feel lighter than the air

in this cracked vinyl booth,

where names are known but not you,

and dollars fall flat, hollow sounds.

I watch the steam curl upward,

as if it might carry away

this weight I can't pay down,

stacked bills on the table,

nothing to catch the falling.

Money’s just paper,

a cruel joke in my fingers,

full pockets, empty breath,

a life you can’t quite buy,

or settle beneath the skin.